


Sleight of Hand

by melo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, High School, M/M, Middle School, Regret, Sharing a Bed, Street & Stage Magic, Teasing, Teenagers, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melo/pseuds/melo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is the cop and Dean is the robber, and maybe it was always this way, or maybe it wasn't.</p><p>Or: The one where Castiel comes to understand the crime he has committed and the truth he never could accept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of it's characters.
> 
> Bear with me, there is a linear timeline and various scenes from the past that don't take place in order.

In and of itself, the flat is rather nice.

It’s in an old building that stands in a less than sparkling neighbourhood, but the space has been refitted with modern affects and comforts, bare brick walls and faded hardwood floors left intact to preserve the character of past generations.

The furniture is less tasteful though they too are a collaboration between old and new. The mish mash of sofas, coffee tables and shelves lack the thought that was obviously put into designing the flat. Any visual appeal is easily ruined by the shag rugs and polka dot throw blankets that seem to switch places between floor and furniture, depending on where you stand.

It suits the man who owns the flat, but Mr. Shurley isn’t in the building at the moment. The man’s down at the station and it’s Castiel who treads silently past the sitting room, and he doesn’t pay more than a passing glance to the ugly furniture though he notices the similarities between the flat and the apartment he grew up in.

The worn brick and scuffed floors; doors with faded paint and aged hinges; windows dark in their chipped frames – but for him the weathering of the building had been genuine and unwanted – a sign of low income, not decoration – and the space was much smaller. The layout is somehow familiar though, and Castiel has no trouble finding his way.

His focus is past the sitting room; the wide hallway and the room at its end – he’s alert for any movement in the dark, listening for signs of company – and he hears it.

A quiet shuffling of papers.

And then Castiel is standing in the doorway of the large study, gun stretched out before him and aimed at the man bent over a spread of papers on the desk.

“Dean.”

The man continues rifling through the documents like he’s alone, but in the squares of orange cast by the streetlights outside the window Castiel can see the muzzle of a gun resting on the edge of the desk.

“How’d you know I’d be here?” Dean asks, at a regular volume like this is his office and his flat.

“Drop your weapon, Dean,” Castiel says firmly, ignoring the other’s question.

At last, Dean looks up, but he doesn’t unwrap his fingers from his gun. Instead he lifts it; levels the muzzle at Castiel along with a wide grin, sharp and feral, “Did I make your Spidey senses tingle?”

“Dean,” voice serious and professional.

The other man’s eyes appear black in the poor lighting and his grin falls though his weapon doesn’t, “I can’t, Cas,” face solemn like Castiel has rarely seen it, “I can’t.”

And even in the dark, Dean looks pale, bruise-like smudges beneath his eyes.

“Dean, I can help you,” Castiel tries when it seems Dean is content to keep them in a draw, “Just put the gun down.”

“Nope,” Dean shakes his head, one corner of his lip twitching up, “How about _you_ put _your_ gun down, pretend you didn’t see anything and just go home.”

“You know I can’t stop my investigation.”

“And you know I can’t just walk away.”

“You can,” Castiel insists; has to resist stepping forwards with his conviction.

“No, Cas,” Dean sighs, frustrated hands tightening on his gun, “Why can’t you just–”

“Just what?” Castiel’s eyes narrow, “Let them continue trafficking drugs and weapons; extorting people into prostitution and getting away with murder?”

“No! But why did you have to–” Dean’s mouth pulls down, brow scrunching and voice hoarse, “It’s _Sam_ , you know him. He’s not–”

“Sam made his own choices, Dean,” Castiel says.

And he thinks about the curious boy with the floppy brown hair and dimpled smile; thinks about the man of imposing height, calculating and so filled with resentment.

Sam isn’t the same anymore.

None of them are.

Dean’s eyes flash – betrayed; angry, but he doesn’t speak against Castiel – and then he is smooth and unruffled, like a deck of cards shuffled and cut, the top turned over to the Knave of Hearts.

“Well I’ve made mine,” one dimensional, final; face a hard mask.

The air feels too heavy.

And Castiel’s tired.

He doesn’t understand how things turned out this way – it was never supposed to be more than a children’s game.

He thinks of evenings spent hunched over textbooks, watching green eyes droop with boredom; mornings searching for his box of cereal, only to find an IOU for the Lucky Charms taped to the back of the kitchen cabinet.

Castiel’s brow furrows, “Dean–”

It happens quickly.

There’s a loud crash from downstairs – wood splintering as the front door is kicked in.

Dean fires.

A flash; a bang.

Castiel pulls the trigger as he drops to the floor.

Bang.

A jolt down his arm; recoil.

Dean jerks back and stumbles behind the desk.

Castiel rolls behind the doorframe.

He feels like his nerves have short circuited though his hands remain steady, one on his gun, the other doing a quick pat down of his chest in search of wounds.

When he finds none he peers cautiously around the doorframe; spots the toe of a boot behind the desk and hears the huff of panting breath.

“Dean,” he calls; pleads, as he hears the stomp of boots ascending stairs, “Please, just – just come quietly.”

The commotion can only be a couple floors away now and they don’t have much time.

“Cas,” shaky and bitter, “Do you remember when we were kids?”

“Yes, Dean, but we can talk about this after,” Castiel instructs calmly, “For now, put down your gun. I’m going to enter the study and put you in handcuffs.”

But Dean doesn’t seem to hear him, continues fondly, “For all your brain power – you were always the slowest thing on two legs.”

“Listen to me, when the others arrive, remain quiet and do not fight. I’ll ensure that you’re treated fairly and I will get you into protective custody,” Castiel calls into the study.

Dean ignores him; ignores the pound of marching feet growing louder; ignores the crackle of transceivers and the low grunts of approaching officers, instead he asks softly, “Do you think that – that this is it for us? That this is how it was always going to be?”

“Things can still change,” Castiel answers, sliding to his feet, back pressed against the cover of the wall, “Like magic, Dean. Just like magic.”

A derisive chuckle, “Thought you didn’t buy into that crap.”

“Things can still change,” Castiel repeats.

There’s a pause in which Castiel thinks Dean might finally give up, then, “I’m glad you think so, Cas.”

Castiel steps into the doorway, just in time to see Dean smash through a study window and tumble onto the platform of the iron stairwell outside.

Castiel curses, vaulting over the desk in the middle of the room and hurrying to the window. He leaps out onto the landing, looks up to see that Dean’s already a few floors above him and scrambles for the stairs to give chase.

The staircase is old and poorly maintained, black paint chipped off and metal rusted so far in places that Castiel’s surprised his foot doesn’t punch through the floor and the stairwell doesn’t detach from the brick face of the building.

He can’t have spent more than a few minutes outside, but he’s relieved to see he’s almost at the top of the winding stairs – almost caught up with Dean who has reached the roof – but then the other man’s throwing something down the stairs, a large black object which Castiel realizes is a bag of trash.

He ducks to the side to avoid it, but is clipped in the shoulder and the heavy bag sends him reeling back down the stairs as he tries to keep his footing. And though he saves himself from a nasty fall, it costs him time and when he finally passes the obstacle of the trash bag – the great lump clogging the stairway, wedged between the railings – and reaches the roof, it’s empty.

Castiel races around all four corners, checking behind the stout block in the center where the door for roof access from the interior is, and sprinting around crates and piles of debris large enough to hide a man.

But there’s no one, and Castiel runs to the South side of the building, presses his hands to the stone ledge that boxes the perimeter of the roof as he leans over.

This is the only side of the building that’s close to a neighbouring structure, but even so, Castiel can see the distance between buildings is too far for Dean to jump, so he looks downwards, checking the wall for suitable hand and footholds the other man could use to climb down.

The grooves in the brick are deep and Castiel thinks there’re enough window ledges and decorative mouldings for Dean to make the descent, but Castiel doesn’t have the same skill set as the other man and can’t possibly follow him this way.

He grits his teeth as he fails to catch Dean yet again; hands fisting on the stone ledge.

But only one hand feels dry with the dust and dirt he expects.

The other is wet.

Castiel snaps his head down to look at his right hand as he uncurls his fingers.

The night is too dark and the streetlights are too dim to illuminate the colour, but he still knows what the dark smudge across his palm is.

Castiel’s eyes fall to the stone and he sees dark drops shining on the ledge; a pattern of smeared handprints, wet and fresh.

His heart seems to skip a few beats, like there are air pockets in his veins where the blood’s vanished – vanished and reappeared on his hand; the stone ledge.

But that can’t be because it’s not his blood.

“Detective.”

Castiel startles, eyes tearing away from his hand to find Uriel standing at his side.

He doesn’t know how long the other detective has been there, and he doesn’t know when the other officers appeared – one standing by the roof access door, another shining a flashlight down the iron stairwell – it can’t be more than a few minutes, but it’s long enough for Uriel to have developed a disapproving edge to his voice, “You were supposed to wait for assistance, Detective.”

Castiel’s eyes skirt away because Uriel’s right, but he knows that given a second try, he still would’ve gone up alone.

And the larger man must know it too because he says quietly, seeming to loom over Castiel though he moves not at all, “The only reason I haven’t divulged your history with Winchester is because you told me you could be objective and use it to our advantage,” deep voice a warning that curls darkly in Castiel’s ear, “But perhaps you have misjudged yourself.”

Castiel’s mouth draws into a firm line as he gathers his wits, “No, I can do this.”

Uriel looks at Castiel appraisingly; face taut with suspicion as he gauges the honesty of Castiel’s words, but then the transceiver in his hand crackles loudly and he steps away; turns around to speak into the hand held device in low tones.

It’s a jumble of white noise that Castiel has trouble deciphering but that Uriel seems to understand, and when the larger man turns back to face Castiel, he is relaxed, pleased, “We’ve found Winchester.”

Castiel tries to keep his surprise from colouring his words, “We’ve caught him?”

Uriel looks at him sideways, “We have him,” he claps a hand to Castiel’s shoulder, “But for your sake, I hope your judgement is as good as you believe it to be.”

  


* * *

  


“ _Pew – pew – pew._ ”

Castiel doesn’t look up from his desk, pen continuing to scratch into his paper, “Hello Dean.”

Dean pokes him in the back with a finger – the muzzle of his pretend gun – and leans over Castiel’s shoulder to look at what’s spread across the desk, “What’re you doing?”

“Homework,” Castiel shrugs, trying to shake Dean off, but the other teen just repositions his finger gun against the back of Castiel’s head – adds a second one and pokes at Castiel’s scalp with alternating jabs.

“Thought you already got your A+ and golden star,” Dean chirps in his ear.

“Yes, Dean, but if you actually went to class you’d see that there’s more than one assignment per year,” Castiel sighs, exasperated, feeling cranky from working nonstop for hours.

His back hurts and his hand aches and his legs feel paralyzed and it’s annoying, but he doesn’t bother swatting Dean’s hands away this time because knowing the other teen, Dean will just move on to sticking his fingers directly into Castiel’s ear canals.

“So you aren’t hiding some porn under all those papers?”

Castiel snorts, “Only if you consider meiosis to be porn.”

Dean rolls his voice in a mock-purr, batting his hand like a cat’s paw against Castiel’s arm, “Kinky, Cas.”

“Always,” Castiel says flatly.

He tries to find the spot he left off at in the textbook, but it becomes difficult to concentrate when Dean practically drapes himself over Castiel, chin propped carelessly on Castiel’s shoulder and the soft puff of his breath loud in Castiel’s ear.

Castiel reads the same sentence at least a dozen times and still doesn’t know what it means though he knows he understood it ten minutes ago. He’s not sure whether he’s grateful for the semi-peace Dean is offering by keeping silent if he’s still rendered illiterate.

Studying is near impossible to do with Dean around, and the other boy seems to agree with Castiel’s unspoken conclusion.

“Fuck this. Let’s go see a movie,” Dean slaps Castiel on the back as he straightens up.

“I’m doing a very important assignment, Dean,” Castiel grumbles tiredly.

“Yeah, well you’ve been sitting there all day,” Dean flicks the back of his head in disapproval, “And I’m very important too. Besides–”

Dean spins Castiel’s chair around, gripping the arms of it so he boxes Castiel in. He waggles his eyebrows, mouth stretched suggestively, “Which would you rather do?”

“Dean,” Castiel can feel his face heating and curses himself for it.

Green eyes crinkle in delight, “Aw, Cas, are you blushing?”

“Well, one of us has to know what shame is and it’s obviously not going to be you,” Castiel retorts, hating how easily Dean’s teasing affects him.

He wrenches Dean’s hands from the arms of his chair, spinning back around to continue writing his paper – because he will, even if it means using a dictionary to understand a dictionary to understand the textbook – but his textbook is gone and so is his pen.

Castiel exhales slowly through his nose as he spins back around – again – to face the other teen.

Dean sits innocently on the window sill, one hand holding Castiel’s textbook propped open on his lap, the other holding Castiel’s pen to his mouth, pressing the blue plastic against his bottom lip.

“Return my things.”

“I’m sorry, your what?” Dean tilts his head in false confusion, sliding Castiel’s pen past his pursed lips.

Castiel musters his control to keep his face from growing even redder, “My textbook and my pen.”

“Maybe your book, but I dunno – I kinda like your pen,” Dean grins around the blue plastic, pink tongue peeking out.

Castiel sucks in a deep breath, knowing this is going to go on for hours otherwise, he gets to his feet – legs tingling with pins and needles – and he simply walks up to Dean and snatches his textbook from Dean’s hands; yanks his pen from Dean’s mouth.

Dean pulls back like he’s been slapped, mouth falling into a pout, “Ouch, Cas.”

“Just be glad the pen didn’t explode in your mouth,” Castiel says, thinking of how Dean’s habit of chewing pens often leads to an ink stained face.

“I wouldn’t mind if it was your pen that exploded in my mouth.”

Castiel throws his things onto his desk and resists rolling his eyes at Dean’s flirtatious nature.

Not for the first time, Castiel thinks that he and Dean would never have been friends if they didn’t live in the same apartment complex; if they hadn’t been in the same class since kindergarten. Their personalities and interests clash more often than not and Castiel doesn’t understand why Dean seeks him out for company – especially now that they’re older and their social circles have diverged.

Castiel shakes his head, “Dean, I can’t help you study later if I don’t finish this. Go find someone who isn’t busy.”

“Come on, you need a break, Cas, and besides – everyone’s busy.”

“I’m sure you could pick up anyone in the building if you tried,” Castiel says, thinking of the gang of boys Dean normally hangs out with or the flock of girls that always hover after him.

“Never, Cas,” Dean plants his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, trying to push him forwards, “Only you – and hey, if you need more incentive than my amazing presence, I’ll bake you something – maybe a pie.”

“You don’t know how to bake.”

“Sure I do,” Dean kicks at the back of Castiel’s knees to get him walking, “It’s in my blood – Campbell’s Cakes used to be number one, y’know,” he chuckles darkly.

At that, Castiel gives in; lets Dean push him along, only putting up a weak complaint, “You could at least use the door for once.”

Dean laughs, amused by the notion as he steers them to the window and steps past Castiel to slide the glass open.

He slips out onto the landing of the rusting fire escape just outside, “Nah, I like this way better,” he reaches out to take Castiel’s hand, tugging him over the sill with a toothy grin, “So come on – movie. You. Me. Now.”  
 

  


* * *

  


It takes no more than ten minutes for Castiel to reach his destination by car.

The area is already being cordoned off by long strips of yellow tape even though there are few pedestrians outside at this late hour.

Emergency vehicles and police cars are parked haphazardly along the street, lights flashing blue and red, painting the worn sides of the buildings with brief splashes of colour and casting long shadows at the feet of the various uniformed men and women milling about the scene.

Clusters of officers and emergency personnel are congregated around the mouth of an alley though most have drifted off to the perimeter, uninterested in the proceedings as they find their numbers excessive for the occasion – the main event already over.

Castiel slams the door of the car shut, heading towards the largest crowd without giving the usual thanks he would to whoever had just given him a ride in their cruiser, but before he’s more than half way there, he’s intercepted by two officers from his team.

“Detective!” Spangler steps into Castiel’s path, effectively stopping him as he gives an awkward sort of salute to Castiel.

Zeddmore is right by Spangler’s side, adjusting his glasses with one hand and nodding curtly to Castiel, “You got here fast.”

Castiel keeps himself from lashing out in impatience, instead he asks roughly, “De-Winchester?” grits his teeth, “Where is he?”

Zeddmore and Spangler exchange looks, though Castiel is certain that it’s not because they can tell how aggravated he is.

Castiel is on edge, frustrated by Uriel’s refusal to answer his questions. The other detective had simply pushed him into a cruiser and given one of the officers the duty of shuttling Castiel to this intersection, leaving his insides roiling and his skin burning – he has to know what’s happened.

He has to make sure that Dean is being treated properly; has to ensure that excessive blame won’t be pinned on Dean. He can’t let Dean be locked up with just any prisoners. Dean has to be put in protective custody, safe from rival gangs or unfriendly members from his own.

And Castiel has to make sure that Dean will still be within his reach – not shipped off to be processed elsewhere or put under another’s power.

Most of all, he has to know that Dean’s okay – needs to know.

Castiel’s right hand tightens in its fist and he feels the russet on his palm chipping off in dried flakes.

“Well, it’s a little anticlimactic, but I guess it’s for the best,” Spangler finally says; shrugs, turning to look at the crowd behind him, “We brought all our guns and didn’t fire a single shot.”

Zeddmore nods in agreement with his partner, “Wouldn’t have minded getting a little action, but hey – at least we got ‘im. One way or another.”

But Castiel doesn’t really hear anything they say.

The crowd is dispersing, a gurney being rolled out of the alley and into view.

“There he is.”

It’s a normal ambulance stretcher, just like a hundred others that Castiel has seen.

But it’s not the same as those hundred others that Castiel has seen.

And it’s not because of the plain sheet draped over the top.

There’s a hand hanging off the side of the gurney.

The sleeve of a worn leather jacket.

Fingers, limp and pale.

Castiel feels like he’s falling.

The world’s slipping away, leaving everything white as clean cotton.

Except where it’s red.

“Dead as a doornail,” a voice says from somewhere to his right.

Another voice, “A bullet to the gut will do that to a man.”

“So much for Mr. Uncatchable, huh?”

“Twenty bucks says he got nailed in the spleen.”

“Why the spleen?”

“Look at all that blood – it’s got to be the spleen: blood reservoir.”

“Well then, you can keep your twenty, I’ll just wait for the medical examiner to call it.”

“Whatever, man. The real prize is a job well done – one less scumbag stalking the night.”

“You’ve got that right.”

“Yeah – congrats, Detective. You finally got him.”

  



	2. Chapter 2

  
There are finger tips on the edge of Castiel’s book, pressing down at the top and lowering it slowly from his line of sight; replacing his view of black and white with bright green.

“Wanna see an awesome magic trick?”

Castiel sets his novel down on the mattress beside him and turns to glance at the window. He’s unsurprised to find it ajar though he distinctly remembers that it was closed and locked this morning.

“If you’re going to pull another pigeon out of your hat, I’m not cleaning up the mess again,” Castiel answers dryly, sitting up properly against his headboard and stretching his arms above his head to get the blood flowing after those couple hours of reading.

Dean kneels in the center of Castiel’s bed, watching him, so Castiel finishes quickly with a few rolls of his head to work out the kinks in his neck, “I thought you were with Alastair and the guys?”

“Oh, they wanted to do some stuff,” Dean frowns; bites his lip, “I didn’t feel like going with them, and really – I wanted to show you this.”

“Fine,” Castiel doesn’t ask for Dean to clarify what he means by ‘stuff’, just shrugs; lets himself fall back against his headboard, waiting for whatever nonsense Dean wants to pull today.

Dean swallows, unusually nervous, “Okay well luckily, I’m not wearing a hat, so no pigeons,” he grins, running a hand through his sandy hair and gaining confidence with Castiel’s unwavering attention. “Just keep your eyes on my ring ‘cause I’m going to make it disappear.”

Dean wiggles the fingers of his right hand in front of Castiel, making sure that the silver band around the fourth finger is clearly visible.

And then with a mischievous wink, he tilts his head back and bares his throat.

Castiel forgets to breathe as Dean presses his right hand to the pale skin under his jaw, ring shining softly with the half-light of late afternoon that filters in through the curtains.

Then Dean slides his hand slowly down the long line of his neck, cupping over his adam’s apple before moving lower, fingers catching at the collar of his tee. The fabric is dragged down, stretching to briefly expose the bump of collar bones before Dean’s hand has trailed to his chest; neckline snapping free of his fingers and pulling loosely back into shape.

Dean’s fingers splay over the black cotton on his chest, palm covering the horned pendant of his necklace. His limbs are pale in contrast to the cloth; lined gold with weak sunlight and the ring glints as his hand suddenly plunges lower, wrist twisting as he goes – stopping over his navel with fingers pointed down.

And still his hand creeps lower as he leans back with chest thrust out, thighs parted to balance his kneeling shape. His pinky reaches the edge of his tee, catching it just barely and tugging it to reveal a taut stomach, muscle defined in shadow.

Then Dean’s hand is changing direction, sliding up and bringing the edge of his tee along with it. Inch by inch the cloth draws up, a black veil peeled back at a torturous pace to display the lean shape of his body, flexing gently as he breathes. There’s the fine ripple of muscle, smooth flesh and flawless cream; the soft ridge of ribs, graceful lines by shape and motion.

And all too soon, Dean’s fingers are curled lightly around his left shoulder, the fabric of his shirt falling like a theatre curtain drawing closed.

But the show can’t be over because Dean tips his head against his shoulder, bringing a sly grin into Castiel’s view, teeth flashing alongside the silver ring.

Dean’s palm slides down his left arm, the hush of skin on skin loud in the silence of Castiel’s room, and in the few minutes or hours or days that have passed, Castiel had forgotten that he had a room, let alone a body of his own.

But he’s reminded now as Dean’s right hand finally passes his left wrist, fingers meeting tip to tip – delicately – as if in prayer, before separating and reaching out to cradle the sides of Castiel’s face – warm and rough against his skin except where the ring presses cold and smooth.

And Castiel doesn’t know where the space between them has gone because he’s sure that Dean wasn’t in his lap when this began, but he doesn’t remember how to blink; breath; speak – only knows how to watch.

So he watches Dean who watches back; blue looking up at green looking down at blue.

Then Dean’s hands are slipping off Castiel’s face, deft fingers drumming against the sides of Castiel’s neck – seven times warm and one time cold; thumbs ever present bars of heat. Dean slides his hands lower; presses closer, melts their bodies into a hot line separated by barely there summer shirts that can’t hide the rise and fall of chests; the thump of racing hearts.

Dean’s breath ghosts across Castiel’s cheek, lips full and pink, slightly parted and so close Castiel can almost feel the smooth softness – a phantom touch against his skin.

Half-mast eyes peer down at him through long lashes, pupils blown, looking drugged yet unbelievably clear and vibrant – bottle glass in sunlight; just as lovely, just as warm.

And Castiel feels like he’s unravelling; falling apart and away and closer and together; ribcage unfurling as it fails to contain the heat pounding, pulsing – drumming fingers – through it.

He feels something hot and wild pooling in his gut, his mouth inexplicably desert dry yet wet with hunger, fingers twitching at his sides – the need to touch, stronger than any thirst for knowledge he’s experienced and as foreign as the tightness in his chest.

And it’s good – breathless sprint under summer sun; thick wet heat of humid evening.

It’s bad – coarse rope around his neck; prick of needles in his spine.

It’s – jean clad thighs straddling his hips; catch of skin on skin; fingers twined in hair, tilting his head back; Dean – leaning down; closer.

Too close.

“Dean–“ Castiel manages to choke out, voice like sandpaper but sounding more like a gunshot in the quiet, “Dean, this isn’t a magic trick.”

Castiel breaks the spell, shoving the other boy roughly off him.

He brings a hand to his face, scrubbing across his eyes and telling himself that everything’s wrong.

Just another teasing game – a joke; a prank.

He can’t let himself get caught up in it.

The touches, the looks, the way Dean’s expression seemed to fold and rebuild – a house of cards blown apart – wide smile drawn in the space of a heartbeat; the time it took for Castiel’s hands to connect and disconnect.

For a few moments, Dean doesn’t move from where he’s sprawled awkwardly on the bed, lying in the position he fell, and then an arm twitches out, elbow bent to prop his torso up.

“You sure about that, Cas?” Dean grins crookedly, waves his right hand in the suddenly large gap between them.

And the ring is gone.

Dean sits up gingerly like his limbs might detach; marionette arms jerkily pulling his jean pockets inside out and gesturing at his bare forearms. He speaks theatrically, “Nothing in my pockets; nothing up my sleeves.”

Castiel swallows thickly, willing to accept Dean’s invitation to pretend nothing happened, because nothing did – it’s just part of a magic trick.

Just another of Dean’s games.

He twists his head away so he doesn’t have to look at Dean – buys himself time to calm down, collect his breath and slow his heart – as he pats down the bed sheets around him.

But there’s nothing.

His inspection turns thorough; both to avoid meeting the other teen’s eyes and to try uncovering the trick – pulling back the blankets and emptying his pillow case; stripping the mattress and pounding his pillow flat – but he can’t find the ring.

“Obviously,” Castiel says calmly, summoning the control to look at Dean steadily after the second time he’s checked the space between headboard and wall, “You slid it off and rolled it across the room – perhaps behind the dresser.”

“Cas,” Dean smirks smugly, though tension keeps his shoulders hunched, “I have more talent than that.”

Dean glances to the side for a moment, as if considering what he’s about to do – what might happen next.

It only takes a minute for Dean to come to a decision; take a deep breath.

Then he shuffles closer to Castiel on the bed – which is now a mess – though he doesn’t get as close as he’d been before.

“Here, I’ll make it reappear, all I need is–“ he hesitates, cocky grin seeming to stutter for the blink of an eye, “A kiss.”

Castiel feels his face freeze, “Really.”

“Yeah, Cas. It’s magic,” Dean says dramatically, eyes skittering to the air over Castiel’s shoulder though his smile remains intact, “Some people use hocus pocus words, but all I need is a – a kiss.”

And for the first time in a long time, Castiel feels something like anger prickle across the back of his skull, “I would be more impressed if you returned my math notes.”

“I’m not done with them–” Dean admits sheepishly before hurrying on, “But with magic I can make coins vanish and I can teleport into your room–”

“You always make money vanish and I see you jig the lock on my window all the time,” Castiel says coldly, sounding a lot harsher than he meant to, though he doesn’t try to soften his words.

“Cas,” green darts up anxiously to catch Castiel’s blue, “Have a little faith in me, I – I can make the impossible happen,” he grins weakly, the theatrical edge he’d adopted earlier fizzling out.

Dean reaches out a tentative hand, but Castiel jerks away before the other teen can get within a foot of him, muscles in his jaw jumping as his teeth grind.

Dean drops his hand, eyes seeming to quiver with the effort of holding Castiel’s unflinching stare, “All I need is a kiss.”

But there’s anger burning low in Castiel, the inevitable flare an amalgamation of annoyance and confusion and hurt built over years.

He can’t take it anymore.

He tries to be patient – he does.

But Dean’s endless teasing and constantly immature – irresponsible and inconsiderate – behaviour; all his flirting and his stunts; the falsely innocent faces, the puppy dog eyes and slumping shoulders – it’s too much and Castiel doesn’t know what to do with it; is shaken and wound tight and just wants Dean to go away so he doesn’t have to feel like this.

If Dean had just let it go after Castiel’s first shove – seen that that was Castiel’s limit – and let them pretend that nothing had happened, then maybe everything could eventually return to normal, but Dean’s always pushing, pushing, pushing at Castiel’s buttons.

And Dean’s games often go too far, getting one or both of them in trouble, but this – _this_ –

While Dean’s pranks and teasing have always left Castiel feeling torn and stupid, this is so much worse. A line – whole stretches of barbed wire – have been crossed and Castiel feels humiliated, undone like he’s been stripped naked down to his bones, flesh ripped into little shreds, the pieces of him thrown aside and left to reassemble for a later day of violent play.

Already he can hear Dean rubbing this in his face; cracking jokes with his friends – telling the tale of how worked up the weird nerdy kid got. It’s possible it was even a dare, because this is a whole new level for Dean, but Dean’s been doing a lot of new things with his friends lately – none of them good.

And Dean just sits there on the bed, looks at him with wide eyes, afraid – like it’s Castiel that’s holding the knife here, not Dean.

He hates it.

It’s confusing and painful and this is the end of Castiel’s rope.

Dean is a con, a trickster, a liar and a cheat – always has been, Castiel knows; has experienced firsthand.

He shouldn’t forget that.

He’s seen Dean wheedle out of the tightest spots or into the most rewarding positions ever since they were in elementary school with just his silver tongue and charming smile.

And just because Castiel knows it’s happening doesn’t mean he’s immune.

Dean always uses him – for homework, for snacks, for _alibis_ – and Castiel always has to clean up Dean’s messes; be the butt of Dean’s jokes.

But Dean can find someone else because Castiel doesn’t want to wake up with any more permanent marker moustaches or condoms stuffed in his pockets; he doesn’t want all the erasers on his pencils replaced with marshmallows, and he doesn’t want to have to help cover up whatever crap Dean’s been getting into.

No more.

So Castiel only stares icily at Dean, hands curled tightly in his lap and lips a thin line as he waits for Dean to leave so he can start cleaning his room – again, like every time after Dean decides to show Castiel a magic trick.

Dean’s eyes look a little glazed as they fall away from Castiel’s and his chin jerks just the slightest bit down, but his smile remains etched in place.

“Okay, you win,” Dean laughs lightly; breathlessly like he finds the air thin. The corners of his mouth are stretched wide and he waves one of his hands stiffly towards Castiel’s lap.

He says, softly, “Look, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow as his mind jumps to what might happen if he looks down – Dean laughing about how Castiel would still follow his instructions at this stage; Dean fleeing out the window without a word; Dean ‘borrowing’ Castiel’s homework/clothing/food/bike/wallet.

But Dean just keeps smiling, expression opaque, revealing nothing.

So Castiel glances down.

And on the fourth finger of his right hand: a silver ring.

  


* * *

  


Castiel feels like he’s losing time.

He doesn’t know how he hasn’t been fired yet, but apparently he’s been handing in reports he doesn’t remember writing; arriving to work on time and dressed appropriately – neatly if not normally, his clothes thicker than the fall weather should require – though he can’t even recall waking up.

There are more than a dozen mugs on his desk that he doesn’t remember getting, each with a different level of drink inside – like he was halfway through a cup, forgot it was there, and then went to get another – the bottoms of the emptier ones coated with the dried dregs of coffee. But besides the field of mugs planted on the wooden surface, there is little else.

The inbox at the corner of the tabletop is empty, the outbox piled high like Castiel’s been a machine for the past however long – he doesn’t even know – processing his paperwork at a pace that he’s told was ‘freakish ’, yet not remembering a single second of his hours of toil.

And strangely, while the mugs of old coffee have been left sitting in no particular pattern, his pens and pencils have been ordered meticulously by length, brand name and colour. He’s never done that before, let alone straightened them obsessively, though the row of parallel writing utensils spaced by perfect quarter inches suggest that that’s what he’s been doing.

He’s not sure if his coworkers have noticed, but if they have they seem to attribute his unusual behaviour to the sudden flood of work that came with the death of one of the city’s more notorious criminals.

Winchester, Dean.

Castiel stands in front of the corkboard that hangs near the block of officer’s cubicles, staring at the various postings profiling Winchester, Dean pinned crookedly all over the surface.

Estimations of his physical characteristics, his height; weight; shoe size.

There are few official documents on the man, only a birth certificate and school transcript; a file from a city orphanage, some records from social services and a brief medical history of sporadic checkups through his childhood and adolescence.

There’re no fingerprints to show, though there is a list of possible partial prints gathered from various crime scenes he was known to be at.

There’s no mug shot either because Winchester, Dean was never apprehended.

But there are police sketches and photos.

Photos of Winchester exiting a building believed to house weapons.

Photos of Winchester meeting with Masters, Meg – suspected of human trafficking – at a downtown cafe.

Photos of Winchester conversing with greasy haired thugs; frequenting various bars in the red light district; loitering in the doorway of a rundown apartment; walking into an alley.

There are a lot of photos of Winchester collected from over the years and they’re all grainy, all at a bad angle, blurred by motion or half obscured.

But Castiel’s eyes know how to connect the dots – know how to smooth the pixels and draw the lines – and he sees.

Dean’s broad shoulders and slightly bowed legs, back slouched as he sits waiting on a park bench.

Dean’s light brown hair, sticking up in wet spikes, his hand ruffling through the mess as he ducks out of the rain and into an underground parking lot.

They’re snapshots of Winchester – Dean – his mannerisms and habits, a sample of little freeze-frames on how he did business; how he charmed his superiors and subordinates – clients and peers; criminals and civilians.

How he used to live, if not who he used to be.

Castiel’s hand comes up to touch the fuzzy shapes of the nearest photo – Winchester leaned against a newsstand and flipping through a paper – it’s impossible to tell, but Castiel can make out the little smile on Dean’s face; knows he was reading the comics section.

“Detective!”

Castiel spins around, nearly elbowing Milton in the face.

The red head dodges easily, used to working in the cramped spaces between filing cabinets and shelves; she only waves a paper towards Castiel, “Read this.”

Castiel takes the paper, notices that it’s a newly updated report on Winchester and he feels his mouth go dry – perhaps the reason there are so many mugs on his desk.

He vaguely remembers holding a similar report at some time, but he doesn’t have the energy to handle any more documents that include the words _Winchester, Dean_ and _deceased_ on the same page, but just as he’s about to hand the sheets back to Milton, a single word catches his eye.

“Blanks.”

Castiel feels numb – and he thought he’d been cold before.

Milton nods, eyes wide, “Yeah, I know, right?”

“Blanks,” Castiel repeats again.

“Yeah, when I heard that shots had been fired, you don’t know how worried I was,” Milton hugs her armful of file folders closer to her chest, “I thought you might’ve been – been shot, but I guess we were lucky.”

It wasn’t luck.

A web of creases grows under Castiel’s hand as his grip tightens on the report, “How was his gun filled with blanks?” the paper crumples in time with Castiel’s lungs, “Winchester is – was an expert with firearms. He would’ve known the instant he held the gun. He had to have known.”

Milton shuffles the folders in her arms uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.

The ink of the report seems to twist into a different language, but Castiel doesn’t try to translate.

He only echoes himself, “He had to have known.”

But Dean still pulled the trigger.

And Castiel shot him.

Castiel shot Dean.

“He wasn’t packing his regular Colt – not even his Taurus,” Harvelle speaks up, leaning over the wall of her cubicle, “Glock 17 – probably wasn’t used to it and just couldn’t feel the weight difference.”

Milton’s lips purse, “Why wasn’t he carrying his own gun?”

“My guess is the guy who sold him out is the same guy that gave him the assignment and probably the gun – maybe with a little, ‘If you don’t use this gun like I asked ya to, imma gonna start doubtin’ your loyalties,’ thrown in,” Harvelle’s brow furrows. “The real question is why Winchester went along with it – I mean, he was smart enough to keep out of our reach for years, so–”

She shrugs, blonde head propped on her folded arms, “But I’m not a profiler – s’not my job to figure out why he played with guns and knives, let alone which ones. I was just supposed to shoot ‘im if I saw ‘im.”

Milton shakes her head sadly, “That’s just cruel, setting him up like that – and with a useless gun too.”

“You’re not feeling sorry for him, are you?” the blonde officer squints at the other woman disbelievingly.

“It’s just–” Milton leans against the cubicle wall, resting her armful of folders by Harvelle’s elbow, “It’s pretty ironic. If only he hadn’t been _so good_ at stealing things, the mafia wouldn’t have been interested in him.”

Harvelle raises a cynical brow, “So you agree with all that ‘the mafia blackmailed him’ speculation?”

“Well, there’s no hard evidence of it, but come on–” Milton tosses her hand through the air before her, “The guy was a street magician. And sure, he was suspected of stealing a lot of things and he always seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but his record was clean.”

“Then, ‘bam!’” Milton smacks a hand against her folders, “Suddenly he starts breaking into all sorts of high profile places – government buildings, the _DA’s home_ – heck, he even broke a guy out from _super max_ ,” she drops her hand to her hip, “That doesn’t happen for no reason.”

The blonde officer snorts, “You never know – one thing leads to another. I say he was _running with_ the mafia,” Harvelle’s face twists with disgust, “They wouldn’t get him to help with ‘interrogation’ and ‘enforcement’ if he was just some poor blackmailed SOB.”

Milton’s brow scrunches in confusion, “He was never connected with any of the torturing or murders.”

“Oh, he was definitely involved,” Harvelle nods knowingly, “We might not have got the evidence for it – but you never saw him hold a knife.”

Harvelle’s hand darts out in an imitation of a blade, slicing through the air in front of the other woman’s throat before grinning morbidly, “Sticky fingers and bloody hands – imagine trying to play Murder Handshake with the guy.”

Milton’s lips whiten. She glances over her shoulder as if expecting the subject of their conversation to stroll into the station just to demonstrate Harvelle’s scenario, “Let’s not joke about this.”

“Fine,” Harvelle flicks a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder, “But remember – Winchesters are bad news. Don’t even trust Squeaky Clean Sam ‘cause that bastard’s just _too clean_. I swear – he’s gotta be one of the top five baddies in this game.”

Milton shakes her head, “I get what you’re saying, but still,” pitying eyes fall on her stack of folders, “He used to do free magic shows for community fundraisers; for kids in hospitals – before whatever happened that pulled him into the underworld. He might not have been the nicest guy, but he wasn’t the worst.”

The blonde officer sighs, “Anna, you’re really too soft to even touch the paperwork around here. You should know by now that it doesn’t matter if there isn’t a single bad bone in your body – it only takes one finger to pull a trigger,” Harvelle straightens from the cubicle wall, “Isn’t that right, Detective?”

“Detective?” Harvelle repeats.

Castiel looks up from his palms, “Yeah,” he says, bringing his hands together to rub the cold from them, “That’s right.”

Milton gives him a concerned look, “Are you alright, Sir?”

Castiel nods absently, starts walking back to his desk, leaving the two women without as much as a goodbye.

The pens on his desk are ordered by length, brand name and colour, and he’d noticed earlier that there were fewer laid out on the surface than he owned.

But he realizes now.

Only the blue and black pens.

No red.

  


* * *

  


“Are you afraid of exercise or something?”

Castiel glares at the other teen, arms crossed over his chest, “It’s Cops and Robbers, Dean.”

“Yeah, and we used to play it all the time,” Dean bobs his head, blinks owlishly at Castiel like he doesn’t understand why he’s being so difficult.

“Yes, we used to,” Castiel says slowly, eyes locked with Dean’s like that might help drive his point home, “We’re in high school now.”

“So, the kiddies need more players and you’re going to get fat just sitting, looking at your books all day,” Dean pokes Castiel’s stomach to punctuate his words.

“I’m not getting fat, Dean,” Castiel blocks Dean’s next jab.

“Maybe not,” Dean scratches at his chin, frowning and making a show of deep thought as he looks over Castiel from head to toe, “But you’re a twiggy little bastard – better get some muscles on your bones before someone decides to kick your ass – or at least practice how to run like Hell.”

Castiel’s brows draw down, “No one’s going to kick my ass.”

Dean looks at Castiel, frown still on his face for a few seconds more before it stretches into a grin, “Damn right no one’s going to kick your ass – not with your scary laser eyes, but it’s not like we’re doing anything, anyways,” Dean pouts.

And they aren’t busy, but still.

It’s the weekend and neither of them had the creativity to find something better to do than loiter outside.

Castiel wouldn’t have minded staying in his room to read ahead for school, but Dean had come knocking on his window again with complaints of Castiel’s ‘vampire skin’ and ‘hermitiness.’ Castiel will admit he’s rather pale, but his lifestyle is far different from a hermit’s. It’s just that Dean doesn’t frequent the same places as Castiel – after school clubs, peer tutoring, volunteering at the hospital.

But they haven’t been hanging out together lately, so he didn’t put up much of a fight as he was dragged down the fire escape.

They ended up just strolling down the streets and through the alleys – or, Castiel strolled. Dean walked on the tops of railings, jumped on dumpster lids and bounced off the walls with energy, but eventually they’d made their way into the vacant lot near their building.

The lot is badly paved and mostly dirt with weeds and other scraggily grasses growing up in strange places, trash strewn about like it came from the sky and never left. It’s not large and it’s sandwiched by derelict buildings covered in graffiti and fenced in with rusted chain links, but it’s the closest thing to a park that they have in this neighbourhood.

So Castiel expected to see kids running around trying to play soccer with a half deflated ball and the metal spikes of broken signs stabbed into the ground for goal posts, or maybe an improvised game of basketball using actual baskets hung from the burnt out lights screwed into brick walls.

What he didn’t expect was for a young boy from their apartment complex to run up to Dean and invite him to a game of Cops and Robbers. Neither did he expect how eager Dean would be to join in because Dean’s shameless, but even he must have some sort of pride.

Apparently, Castiel’s wrong because Dean just shuffles from foot to foot like an impatient child waiting for permission to play. So when Castiel continues to stand his ground, Dean sighs and seems to deflate before suddenly perking up.

Dean reaches into the pocket of his jacket, bringing a worn pack of playing cards into view.

Castiel starts to say something to express his disapproval of gambling again – even though Dean always grumbles about the waste of Castiel’s natural poker face – but Dean waves a hand at Castiel to silence him.

“How about this–” Dean flips open the pack, shaking the cards out of the box and into his palm with one sharp jerk before shuffling them with skilled fingers. He fans them out fluidly, somehow managing to do it one handed despite the fact that he holds a full deck.

Dean flaps the ridiculous spread of cards in front of Castiel, presenting their faded red backs to him.

“Pick a card. If it’s an Ace, then we do what I want to do; any other card, and we do what you want to do,” Dean raises his brows, grins in challenge as he offers the cards out to Castiel.

Castiel frowns, jaw jutting out, “You’re going to cheat.”

Dean’s mouth drops open, voice pitched high and feinting shock, “Cas, I’d never!”

Then he lifts the fan of cards to hide his playful smile, peering over them coquettishly and batting his lashes at Castiel. He purrs sweetly, “There’re only four Aces, Cas. Won’t you take the chance?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow because he doesn’t have any illusions of winning this, not when green glints slyly over the edge of the paper fan.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean cocks his head, grin spreading Cheshire wide as he lowers the fan and presses the tips of the cards to his chin, “You can’t be thinking that I walk around with a deck of fifty-two Aces, can you?”

Castiel shakes his head, “You’re still going to cheat somehow.”

“Oh no, you really _do_ think I’m holding fifty-two Aces,” Dean laughs, eyes crinkling gleefully, “How about we switch it up then – if you draw an Ace, then we’ll do what _you_ want.”

“No, Dean, I’m not playing,” Castiel says, because he’s really not sure what Dean is holding.

Dean might have been planning this since before they got here and it might really be a deck of Aces, or Dean might just be fooling Castiel into believing it’s a deck of Aces – trying to trick Castiel into losing by convincing him to draw one of four Aces instead of the forty-eight other cards he could have won with.

Dean tells Castiel he has the best poker face, but Dean always knows how to play him.

Castiel eyes Dean sternly, nostrils flaring, “You’re going to make sure I lose.”

Dean tips his head to his shoulder; eyes innocently round, “So you agree that I’m going to win?”

“That’s not what I–”

“Great–” Dean snaps his fan of cards closed, pockets them and turns a hundred watt smile on Castiel, “I call being a robber!”

Castiel opens his mouth to argue, but what comes out instead is, “Why are you always a robber?”

That’s not what he’s annoyed about, but somehow he still sounds like a petulant child.

“Well, why are you always a cop?” Dean looks down his nose at Castiel.

“I’m going to be a part of law enforcement one day,” Castiel says honestly, brows furrowing, “Stop laughing, Dean.”

But it takes a good five minutes for Dean to catch his breath and straighten, rubbing his belly, working out the stitches in his sides that his fit of laughter sewed.

Dean wipes a tear from the corner of his eye and his smile isn’t so much mocking as it is fond, “Was that _always_ the reason?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, though he feels his forehead wrinkling with displeasure.

Dean moves to stand next to Castiel and rests a hand on the back of Castiel’s neck. He shakes his head, amused, “Jesus, Cas. You were one intense kid. I can’t believe you took it so seriously,” he chuckles again, “It wasn’t like we were really going to be cops and robbers.”

Castiel glances sideways at the other teen, “Well I’m glad you don’t aspire to be a criminal, but I am going to be an officer and I am going to clean up this city.”

Dean raises his brows, disbelieving, waving his arms around and gesturing to the virtual dump they stand in, “You really think you can fix this shit?”

Castiel tips his chin up, stands tall, “Yes, I do.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, face blank before a wry smile picks up the corners of his mouth and he shakes his head. “Aw, come on, Cas! You can’t really want to be a cop – it’s ninety percent paperwork, I bet,” he says as he steers Castiel to the center of the lot where the kids have gathered to divide into teams.

“Besides, being a robber would be way cooler – they do like, disappearing acts and get to sneak around on roof tops and the best part – never have to sit behind a desk, ever.”

Castiel snorts, because of course. Even though they both know exactly how criminals live; the kind of pain they can bring – of course Dean would joke about it.

He turns his head to look at Dean’s profile, unimpressed with his unrealistic points, “Those are the reasons you would prefer being a robber?”

Dean smiles, attention fixed forwards and hand slipping off the back of Castiel’s neck to hang loose at his side.

“Some of ‘em, but really, Cas,” Dean’s eyes crinkle. “When else have you ever tried to catch me?”

  


* * *

  


Castiel tosses his keys into the tray by the door; hears the clink of metal on metal as it lands on his other keys and his pile of loose change.

Forced vacation.

Castiel stays standing at the door of his apartment, still in his trench coat, briefcase in hand.

He doesn’t know how anyone could think that sending him home is a good idea.

The emptiness of his apartment yawns before him, the small space seeming to expand until each wall is a hundred miles apart, the ceiling stretching up to become a new sky – white and featureless, completely detached from the flat beige of his floor – no horizon for the two to meet at.

The furniture shrinks until they look better suited for a doll’s house, the low hum of the heating system sounding more like white noise –

–the crackle of a hand-held transceiver–

Castiel drops his briefcase to the floor; let’s the loud thud clear the air.

He shrugs off his coat, leaves it where it falls.

He doesn’t bother taking off his shoes, not caring that he’s tracking dirt all over the floor.

Castiel doesn’t turn on the lights; steps guided only by habit and the faint natural light that slips between the blinds – dull overcast skies, pale and grey as the washed out cement of the sidewalks; the streets; the buildings – like a grey blanket across the city–

–plain sheet draped over the top–

He falls onto his couch, still in his suit; doesn’t bother loosening his tie – he never ties it properly anyways, so it’s not tight – but he takes off his watch, throws it onto the coffee table.

His hands feel cold.

–fingers, limp and pale–

Everything feels cold.

He regrets taking off his trench coat – he could use the extra layer.

There’s a pad of paper and a pen on the coffee table. He keeps a set in each room just in case of important calls – police business – that he has to jot down.

Work always came first – he never knew what to do with his spare time.

He regrets that – regrets a lot of things – and that’s why he picks up the pad of paper and the pen –

–blue plastic against his bottom lip–

He’s going to make a list.

 _Things to Regret_ , he starts; writes at the top of the page and underlines it.

  
_Things to Regret_   


_\-      Removing my trench coat  
          -      Not removing my shoes  
          -      Not turning on the lights_

  


Already he has three regrets from the events of the past five minutes.

Castiel thinks he’s going to need more paper, but he knows he won’t be getting off his couch any time soon, so he crosses out what he wrote; decides to make a list of only his greatest regrets.

That should be easy.

  
_Things to Regret_   


_- ~~Removing my trench coat~~  
          -       ~~Not removing my shoes~~  
          -       ~~Not turning on the lights~~_

  


It should be easy, but after half an hour, his list is still just three crossed out lines.

Castiel takes a breath; steels himself.

His hand shakes as he writes.

  
_Things to Regret_   


_- ~~Removing my trench coat~~  
          -       ~~Not removing my shoes~~  
          -       ~~Not turning on the lights~~  
          -      Dean_

  


It’s only four letters, but he feels weak with the effort it took to scratch it into the paper – and it’s not even right.

He doesn’t regret Dean.

His pen hovers over the fourth line, ready to cross it out and rewrite it properly.

But he can’t.

That portion of the paper seems to repel ink and Castiel ends up crossing through the third line again.

‘Regret’ isn’t the right word anyways.

Castiel tears off the first sheet of paper; tosses it carelessly to the side.

He _~~laments/mourns/grieves~~_.

Castiel doesn’t know what word to use, but he knows he has to write something.

If he doesn’t get it down on paper; doesn’t look at it, acknowledge it, hang it on the wall – he’ll fall apart.

He can’t avoid what happened forever. He can try distancing himself – thinking objectively, professionally – but it won’t work.

Hiding all the red pens doesn’t erase the red that’s on his hands.

So Castiel tries again.

It’s a more indirect approach – more cowardly – but maybe that’s how he’s always been.

Afraid.

He’ll pursue criminals without hesitation; run into gunfights without flinching; negotiate dangerous situations or talk down distressed civilians with absolute calm.

But he knows that for some things, he has always been a coward – afraid to look; afraid to see.

And it’s only now that he begins to understand what that fear has cost him.

He writes, _Things That Should Have Happened, But Didn’t_ , at the top of his new page; underlines it.

There are so many things that he could write under this heading, but as Castiel thinks about it, he realizes that his life turned out alright.

He graduated high school and left this city for the college of his choice. He obtained his degree, with distinctions, and was accepted into the academy. Again, he was top of his class and could easily have pursued a position at the federal level, but chose to return as a patrol officer and after testing, was quickly promoted.

And now he is a detective, second-grade – barred from first, only because of his youth – but well respected and well liked by his peers, subordinates and superiors.

The media is kind to him, latching onto his cases and painting him as a rising star – a hero – though he hardly makes public appearances. And despite his relatively light experience, there are already substantial rumours of his imminent promotion, granted he tests to become a sergeant.

After all, he is promising; he has the drive, the skill and the favour needed to go far in his career.

He could be the force the city needs, they tell him.

He could be the one to set things right, they say.

He could.

But he can’t.

Castiel’s hand tightens on his pen, knuckles white and tendons standing taut.

His record is perfect and his future stretches out high and bright, but no matter how far he climbs he can’t escape what he’s done – hasn’t done.

He was the good kid, the bright child, the diamond in the rough.

Castiel was always going to be great; was always going to get out from the gutter he grew up in.

No one ever doubted that.

But no one ever saw that there was more than one gem hidden in the dark.

No one saw Dean.

And while everyone praised Castiel’s intelligence and maturity, his good manners and moral fibre, Dean was left behind – no one told him he was good, no one believed he could be better.

Not even Castiel.

And that is his crime.

They were supposed to be friends.

They could have been –

Yet Castiel never listened for the truth in Dean’s words, never looked for the good intentions in his actions.

The ability to pick out his shape in a blurry photograph doesn’t amount to anything.

He still only saw the con, the cheat, the trickster and magician and he was so sure of what he saw that he forgot that Dean could be different.

That Dean would never hurt him.

That Dean would let Castiel shoot him down instead.

Castiel’s eyes squeeze shut.

His life turned out pretty well, but Dean’s didn’t.

And though many of the things that happened to Dean were out of Castiel’s control, he wasn’t powerless.

Dean always sought out, ran to; chased after Castiel.

All Castiel had to do was stand still, stop running; hold tight–

Look.

So he writes.

Castiel sets the pad of paper on the coffee table with hands as steady as he is shaken.

And it won’t change a thing, but Castiel looks.

He looks.

  
_Things That Should Have Happened, But Didn’t_   


_\-      We, us, Dean and Cas_

  


  


* * *

It’s midnight and Castiel’s still awake, staring at his ceiling.

He would normally have been asleep by ten – ‘early’ according to Dean – but he couldn’t manage it this time despite how comfortable his bed is; how warm it is under the covers when the rest of the apartment is freezing. He’s awake, not because he was busy doing his homework last minute like Dean does – despite Castiel’s reminders junior high should be taken seriously – but because he’d been waiting.

Again.

He doesn’t know why he bothers.

Waiting doesn’t make things happen faster, only wastes time and energy, and objectively Castiel knows this. So he guesses it’s just a bad habit that he’s developed – waiting for his father to come home.

But it’s because he’s still awake that he hears the quiet creak of his window being slid open. The sound is near silent even though everything about this building is old and loud.

While the bricks of the walls wear away and the iron of the fire escape rusts, his window seems to be suspended in time because Dean looks after it; keeps it clean and oiled just so he can break into Castiel’s place whenever he feels like it.

And maybe it’s bad that it doesn’t even occur to Castiel that it could be someone else opening his window this night, but Castiel knows it’s Dean.

It always is.

And Castiel has to admit that Dean has skill, though it’s not something he approves of.

He can just make out the open and close of the window, the quietest hush of steps ghosting across the carpet, the barely there sigh of soft breaths.

Then there’s a shadow at the foot of his bed, a slightly quicker rush of air like someone taking a breath to speak, then aborting at the last moment.

“Dean,” Castiel says blandly, letting the other boy know he’s awake.

“Hey Cas.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

A faint flash of teeth as Dean grins, “Thought I’d rob you blind, but I guess I should come back when you’re actually asleep.”

“That would be best.”

“Got anything valuable I should know about?”

“There’s a large black plastic bag under the sink. That is where I keep my fortune.”

“Gotcha, I’ll be sure to take that off your hands.”

“You do that.”

“Anything else you’d miss?”

“My Lucky Charms.”

Dean laughs, claps a hand over his mouth to smother the sound, and Castiel feels just a little proud of himself for it.

“Y’know, I always thought it was weird how you ate Lucky Charms.”

“Were you expecting me to eat Wheaties?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And I always thought it strange how you secretly enjoy carrots.”

Dean huffs, indignant, “Come on, I don’t _secretly enjoy carrots_. You make it sound like I’ve got some sorta dirty fetish.”

“You hide when you eat carrot cake.”

“I don’t _hide_ ,” Dean pokes a finger to the bottom of Castiel’s blanket covered foot, but Castiel isn’t ticklish so he remains unmoved, “I just like to – to eat that by myself.”

And the wan smile Dean gives him is just a smile, but Castiel averts his eyes; clears his throat, “Then I hope you also like doing your homework by yourself, because I’m not letting you copy.”

“Oh, God – how can you do that to me?” Dean clutches his heart in mock-agony.

Then Dean claps his hands together, “Anyways, Sam’s at a sleepover, so I was wondering if you wanna do something; maybe sneak out? Or if you don’t want to go out, we can just go up to the roof. Maybe just the fire escape, or if you don’t even want to walk that far I can just – I’ve got fire crackers and we can blow shit up or–”

Dean runs a hand through his hair, “You know what, never mind,” his shoulders slump, “You have a test tomorrow, right? You need to sleep. I’ll come back to bother you later – or, uh, earlier.”

But before Dean can make it to the window, Castiel asks softly, “Is Kelly not at home?”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, then, “No. It’s just Steve.”

Castiel nods to himself, stomach twisting uneasily, but without surprise.

Of course that’s why Dean would seek him out, hours later in the night than he usually would.

If Sam is at a sleepover and Kelly is working a late shift at the bar, then it would just be Dean and Steve in the apartment. And Dean has never told Castiel why he doesn’t like Steve, but Castiel’s seen the way the man stares at Dean just a little too much; hands lingering on the boy just a little too long.

He doesn’t think anything has happened yet, but still.

So he rolls over to one side of the bed, leaving half of the small mattress empty.

Dean doesn’t say anything as he gets into the bed, crawling under the covers but not fighting Castiel for more blanket.

“Is your dad still at work?” Dean whispers after he settles on his side.

Castiel rolls to face the other boy, only a foot away from him, but he doesn’t reply.

“He’ll be back in the morning,” Dean assures him, “It’s not like he can work thirty hours in a day.”

Castiel grunts, “You’d be surprised.”

“Well… party at Cas’ place,” Dean says with no enthusiasm, pulling the covers up to his chin.

And Castiel wishes that things were better; knows Dean does too.

If only Castiel could count on his father to be there or Dean could count on an adult – any adult, to watch out for him.

Steve hasn’t really done anything, but Castiel knows that if he does, Dean will never say anything. Dean’s been cycled through a number of foster homes and Castiel knows Dean would rather bite off his own tongue than risk ruining the family that took in Sam as a baby – that was willing to accept Dean into their household so that he could be with his brother again.

It’s sad, but this is the way things are.

The world is filled with awful people, some more obviously terrible than others, and their neighbourhood has no shortage of them.

Castiel hears the screaming and yelling at night. Sometimes it’s just another couple’s fight or a bar brawl, sometimes it’s something more sinister. He’s seen the hustlers going about their business, the drug dealers and addicts haunting the alleys and the gangs ambling down the streets, patrolling their territory and keeping the residents in check.

But it’s not the sight of the criminals that stirs Castiel.

It’s the families, the people who have no choice but to live here.

It’s Joshua playing guitar with three fingers – two cut off for not paying protection fees; Pamela, blinded by acid because her husband ran away and left his debts unpaid; Gabriel who just wants to get out of this city, but can only escape through drugs.

It’s Sam’s too-old eyes, his distrust of people and his fear of fire; it’s Dean stealing and lying, hiding in stairwells with carrot cake and memories. It’s Castiel’s mother who disappeared; his father who is just as absent – always working at the factory; always lost in the bottle.

Castiel wishes he could do something, but he doesn’t know what to do, how to help; who’s the next person that will be taken away by the crime that riddles the city streets.

And maybe that’s why he waits for his father.

To make sure he comes home.

“Hey,” Dean hisses, snapping Castiel from his dark thoughts, “Hey, Cas.”

“What?” he asks tiredly; rubs a hand over his dry eyes, trying to smooth out the crease in his brow.

Dean watches him carefully, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Castiel tugs the blanket higher, tries to cover more of his face.

Dean hums doubtfully, eyes shining by the light of the street. Then he leans towards Castiel, voice hushed like he’s telling a secret and face strangely serious, “I’m going to show you a magic trick, okay?”

“Another one,” Castiel sighs, regretting taking Dean to the library, and cursing the street magician that had been outside.

“Yeah, I know you don’t care about my magic, but I promise you’ll like this one – I came up with it on my own,” a warm smile spreads across his face, the curve of his cheek lit orange, “Just close your eyes.”

Castiel purses his lips suspiciously while Dean waits for him to follow instructions.

He doesn’t know what Dean’s up to, but he doesn’t think Dean has his fire crackers with him at the moment, so he gives in.

With his eyes closed, the world seems smaller.

There’re no long shadows to look at, no mysterious shapes looming over him.

It’s just the warmth of his bed, the soft comfort of his sheets and Dean’s steady breaths beside him.

And that’s all.

Minutes tick by and nothing happens.

The whisper of wind outside.

Light rattle of window pane.

A draft whistling through cracked wood.

Castiel feels his guard falling as he starts to succumb to the late hour – the quiet; the peace, a lull that’s void of city sounds and lights – but Dean hasn’t done his magic trick yet.

“Dean, what’re you doing?” he mumbles into his pillow.

But Dean doesn’t answer, just shushes him.

Castiel wonders if he should open his eyes to check, but he feels lazy, heavy with the fringe of sleep. Instead he asks dryly, “When I open my eyes, is there going to be a magical duplicate of my English essay?”

“No, Cas,” Dean huffs a quiet laugh, and there’s the rustle of sheets; a dip in the mattress as Dean shifts closer.

“When you open your eyes,” Dean says, hand resting warm next to his. “I’ll still be here.”  
 

  



	3. Epilogue

“Detective?”

Castiel glances up from his paper; lowers his cup of coffee as he eyes the short man standing by his table, nervously combing fingers through his beard.

The short man shuffles from foot to foot, “I just came to get some coffee and I saw you so I – I thought I’d say ‘hi’.”

Castiel cocks his head, eyes narrowing as he tries to place the man’s face, “Mr... Shurley?”

“Yeah,” he seems relieved to be recognized and sticks out a hand for a handshake, “But just call me Chuck.”

“Very well,” Castiel smiles as he accepts the handshake, “Then just call me Cas.”

Chuck returns his smile, some of the tension slipping out of his shoulders, “Do you mind if I – if I sit?”

“Go ahead,” Castiel nods to the chair across from him, folding his paper and laying it on the cafe table next to his cup of coffee.

Chuck pulls the metal chair away from the table, wincing as the feet scrape loudly across the cement floor before plopping down in the seat and glancing around apologetically at the other cafe patrons on the small patio.

Chuck rests his hands on the glass table top, tented fingers tapping together, “So, uh, how’ve you been?”

“Fine,” Castiel answers politely, “I’ve been fine – and you?”

“Oh, well, I just got back to the city and – and it’s been alright, I guess,” he shrugs, “I mean everything’s a bit of a mess, but hey – I’m alive,” he grins, a slightly sad turn to his lips.

“That’s good,” Castiel nods, takes a sip from his coffee, “And there’ve been no further problems?”

“No, not really,” Chuck’s fingers fiddle with the edge of the newspaper on the table, eyes avoiding Castiel’s.

Castiel watches the other carefully, notes the dark smudges beneath his eyes and the creases lining his face, “If you’re in trouble, I would be glad to help, but I would recommend you take it up with the police if it’s as serious as last time.”

Chuck looks up in surprise, “What do you mean, ‘take it up with the police’?”

“I’m not a detective anymore,” Castiel answers simply.

“You’re – you’re not?” Chuck’s brows furrow in confusion, “But – but you’re an amazing detective and I – I thought it was your, uh, I guess, ‘be all end all’ dream career...”

Castiel raises a brow, wondering what exactly the papers used to print about him.

“Yes, I was good at my job,” Castiel’s not shy to admit, “But I...”

He sighs; looks over the heads of the other cafe patrons, watches the packs of people walking the sidewalks and trying to ram their cars through afternoon traffic.

“I know that there are still good people that need to be kept safe,” Castiel turns back to face Chuck, smiles tiredly, “But I’d... forgotten that, in a way, and I can’t trust myself to protect and serve if I can’t remember who I’m supposed to protect.”

Chuck’s expression crumples, almost guilty, “I’m sure there are a lot of officers out there who don’t care at all about the people.”

“I’m sure there are, but I was never part of the force because I liked the pay check,” Castiel’s smile falls. He traces his finger along the rim of his cup. “Did you know that I grew up in the South side?”

Chuck jerks in his seat, “Wait, you grew up in that hellhole?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus,” Chuck’s shoulders draw up around his ears as if frightened by just the thought, “Wow – he never mentioned that, but growing up there – no wonder you wanted to be a cop.”

Castiel chuckles, “Yes, but you know –” he drums his fingers along the side of his coffee cup, “When I tried getting in touch with the people I grew up with, to contact them about a – a funeral–”

Castiel’s fingers stop.

“Do you know how many picked up the phone?”

Chuck swallows, eyes wide, “Uh... three fourths of them?”

“Just one man,” Castiel swirls the cooling liquid in his cup, “And he couldn’t even attend the funeral.”

Chuck’s eyes drop as if he’d been punched in the gut, “Where... where’d everyone else go?”

Castiel shakes his head, “Most of them are dead, apparently. Dead, in prison, missing – but probably dead.”

“Oh.”

Castiel smiles bitterly, “I joined the force so that I could help them, but really – I only saved myself.”

Chuck’s bloodshot eyes fly up to fix on Castiel, mouth pulling down in a frown, “But you tried – you tried to help.”

“Not enough.”

“But you tried,” Chuck repeats, voice strengthening, “And that counts for something.”

“Does it really?” Castiel asks flatly; hand splaying on the glass tabletop.

“Yeah, it does,” Chuck’s lip quivers though his words are firm, “I was – I was pretty much dead meat with Al-Alastair breathing down my neck, but it’s because of people like you that I’m alive today.”

Castiel cocks his head, because he doesn’t remember Alastair being involved in Chuck’s case, but Chuck keeps speaking, watery eyes wide and bright.

“You’re a good guy – always trying to make things better, and even if you don’t think so, you lead the way. You set an example and make others think; make them wonder if they can be something more; if they can be better too.”

Chuck looks at Castiel, earnest and knowing, “Swooping in to save the day is nice, but little things can be just as good – helping someone study; putting up with them no matter how annoying they get; being there when they’re scared and alone – it adds up; becomes that safe place they will always run towards, even if it seems like they’ll never get there.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow.

Chuck’s leaning over the table top now, looking at Castiel with none of the anxiety he had earlier, only faint gratitude, “It can be enough to keep a guy from falling too far; enough to drive him climbing back up. And when you save one person, that one person can save many others.”

Castiel’s mouth goes dry and he stares at Chuck, feeling as though he’s balanced on a knife’s edge.

“Thank you,” Chuck says quietly, and then he stands up, hesitates as he adds, “I’m not supposed to – maybe I shouldn’t... and I – I’m sorry. For what you’ve gone through, but I think you–”

Chuck wets his lips, voice wavering but determined, “I’ve always been, uh – just a not-good guy, y’know. Ran scams and even ch-cheated some of my friends...” he meets Castiel’s stare, “I’m pretty bad at making good choices, but I – I think this is right.”

Then he nods stiffly to Castiel, once again a bundle of nerves like he’s just planted a bomb in the cafe as he moves to leave the patio.

Castiel remains staring at the space Chuck vacated, mind spiralling as he thinks; he wonders; he–

Castiel’s eyes drop to the glass tabletop.

And in the center: a silver ring.

Castiel shoots out of his chair, sending the piece of furniture tumbling back as his hand darts out to grip the ring. Then he’s spinning around to pinpoint Chuck – but the man’s running down the street.

So Castiel runs after him.

He leaps over the low railing that boxes the patio, kicking over someone’s coffee but not apologizing and not stopping as he hears surprised yells and affronted cries.

He shoves through the throngs of people on the sidewalk, making it out onto the street where pedestrians won’t be obstacles and darting between the nearly stationary cars, for once appreciating downtown traffic.

Chuck is unexpectedly quick, like a rodent running for his life, glancing back at Castiel with eyes deer-in-head-lights wide, his face white with terror – as he should be.

Castiel’s vision is completely focused on the small man scurrying away from him. It’s like his body and mind have been stripped down to lighten his step, keeping only what’s necessary for catching Chuck, for tearing answers out of him – literally if he has to.

The people and the cars around him are a blur, and he knows he’s running across pavement, but it seems more like hunks of rock are flying up to meet his steps as he hurls through a tunnel of coloured fog, guided only by a shadow.

  


 _“What did you drag me out here for?” Castiel asks, trailing after Dean._

 _Dean lowers his can of soda and turns an exaggerated pout on Castiel, “Is hanging out with me really that bad?”_

 _“No, Dean, but we’ve been wandering for at least an hour. When you asked me to see a movie with you, I thought you had one in mind,” Castiel rubs a finger between his brows, trying to smooth the crease that’s probably permanent by now._

 _“Well, I didn’t,” Dean shrugs, slowing down as they reach another theatre._

 _Castiel’s head tilts as he looks over the building, “You realize this isn’t a movie theatre, but an actual theatre with a stage, right?”_

 _“Yeah, but don’t you like culture and artsy stuff? I decided that we’d do not-homework, so you can pick what not-homework we do,” Dean grins around his soda. “It wouldn’t hurt to meet in the middle for once.”_

  


Castiel runs, lungs burning with every inhale, sweat beading on his brow and the back of his neck. His legs kick machine-quick, arms pumping, punching through the air that tries to slow him down.

He’s not sure how long he’s been running for or how far he’s gone despite the way his thumping steps and beating heart keep loud time in his ears; his bones. All he knows is that he will run like this – madly, desperately – across the city; across every state and every border if he has to.

He’ll run for as long as it takes, as many thumps and beats as his body can give and then some, because his eyes are locked on Chuck, and it’s Chuck whom he’s in pursuit of, but not really.

Something inside Castiel calls for a ghost he hasn’t spoken of in a thousand days; for a memory that visits him – a phantom touch – every night, every night.

It’s a sound that doesn’t die and only grows, and Castiel is afraid.

So he runs, but not away.

  


 _“You want to see The Magnificant Magician, Magnifico?” Castiel asks carefully._

 _Dean sputters, actually spitting out his mouthful of soda on the sidewalk before spinning around. “Hell, no. I let you mix fun with education and this is what you pick?”_

 _Castiel looks between Dean and the theatre poster Dean had been staring at, speaks slowly, “I’ll try not to judge you, so we can go if you’d like.”_

 _Dean’s face is contorted with something like horror as he crushes his empty soda can between his hands, seeming to find the destruction therapeutic._

 _Then he tosses the crumpled tin into the trashcan by the wall, forehead wrinkling as he turns back to Castiel, “That’s nice, Cas, really. And I do like magic, but this–” he slaps a disgusted hand to the poster, “–is not magic.”_

  


It takes tripping over a water hose for Castiel to stop.

He tumbles forwards, hands automatically flying out to break his fall, palms scraping raw as he skids across the pavement. It’s a bad fall and his wrist might be sprained, but it only takes a few seconds for him to push himself off the ground; for Chuck to disappear from view.

And Castiel is a mess, in body and mind because his hands are bleeding and the need to hunt Chuck is like a chain around his neck, but somehow his first priority is staying on his knees, scrambling after the silver ring that rolled from his hand when he fell.

He manages to catch it before it rolls into the gutter and he sobs with relief, feeling the cold metal slick in his bloodied palm. He holds it fisted against his chest, not trusting his grip and fearing he might drop it again – might lose it.

He looks up, knowing Chuck’s gone but refusing to give up, and it’s then that he finally notices where he is and why no one seems disturbed to see a grown man crawling around in the middle of the street.

It’s his old neighbourhood and he’s kneeling on the pavement outside the apartment he grew up in.

It looks like it might collapse at any moment, and it’s clear that no one lives in the building anymore, the doors and windows boarded up, waiting for the day it’s knocked down. From where he kneels, Castiel can see into the narrow alley where the fire escape is, and it’s a rusted skeleton that might crumble to red powder in the next gust of wind.

Yet when Castiel gets up, he steps forward and doesn’t hesitate to reach for the iron railing.

  


 _Castiel hums, looking at the poster’s overbearing font and the glittering picture of a caped man clutching a wand; says doubtfully, “It’s not?”_

 _“Definitely not. This sparkly, flashy crap–” Dean waves his hands over the poster, “Bullshit.”_

 _Then Dean smirks and thumps his chest proudly, chest puffing out, “Real magic is what I do.”_

 _Castiel smiles wryly, “You mean stealing my things and breaking into my home?”_

 _“No – it’s…” Dean ducks his head, rubs a hand over the flush rising on the back of his neck, “That’s just me.”_

  


It’s only a few flights of stairs, but the climb feels both endless and too brief, and the next thing Castiel knows, he’s on the landing of the fourth floor, staring at the window to his old room.

It’s one of the few windows without boards nailed over it, instead covered by a loose plastic sheet, smudged and dirty, replacing the glass that’s missing from the frame.

And it’s just a window, but it’s a vantage point from which Castiel has never looked.

He often climbed out his window onto the fire escape, but always returned home through the front door.

And it’s just a window, but the sight of it has Castiel wound tight yet undone.

The frame looks a little cleaner than the other windows, the wood a little less chipped and the paint a little less scuffed, and though it’s obvious the glass pane had been smashed out, there are no jagged edges left behind.

It could mean nothing, but it could mean everything, and Castiel is out of his element. Despite his steady breath and unflinching form, he feels out of control, torn apart and stripped down to bare bones and bloodied hands.

This could ruin him, cut out any of what he’s managed to preserve of himself for the past few years.

It would be safer to walk away, run back down those steps and go home; pretend he didn’t see anything.

It would be smarter to just let this go; to just let the past lie, unchanging ink etched into paper.

Because he can’t really believe that there’s a chance, right?

He can’t think that things can still change, can he?

But there’s a silver ring held warm in his palm.

So Castiel catches hold of the sheet.

He draws back the curtain.

  


  


  


 _“Okay, so what is magic?” Castiel tips his chin up; crosses his arms._

 _Dean grins, accepting the unspoken challenge, “Real magic,” he says, voice low as he creeps closer to Castiel, “Doesn’t need a stage or a theatre – just an audience and performer.”_

 _Castiel backs into the wall, but Dean leans closer, limbs a shadow to Castiel’s, leaving only a whisper of space between them._

 _“It’s where you stare and stare and stare, until suddenly–” Dean presses their foreheads together, keeps Castiel still, “You realize that you aren’t looking at the magician’s hat anymore.”_

 _Castiel can’t blink, so he breathes, “Then what am I looking at?”_

 _“You’re looking at the rabbit,” Dean says. “And finally, you see.”_


End file.
